Adam was, according to recent mythology, the original man, homo uno. As
the forefather of cryogenic sports, Adam sits alone, the apeiron in the
trees, our arboreal forefather, thee ancestor/incestor par excellence. He
inseminated the world through our beloved lady of the Genetic River (homo
house), Mitachondrial EVE, metachondrial Eve, if you will but allow. This
insemination filtered from womb to womb until finally great panacea split
leaving our great legacy relegated to the history books of our extra-somatic
overlord, Mr. Freeze. A snowman par excellence our friend, the cryptozoologicl
Mr. Freeze, was left to roam the mountains of Tibet and portions of the
Rocky Mountains. An ardent anarchist and practitioner of neo-voodoo, Mr.
Freeze began concocting hair-brained schemes, from his shack in the mountains,
to replace all the governments of all the nations of all the world with
tennis rackets, supreme. Again as his döppleganger, the aenphallable Mr.
Hide.(ALL HAIL!) THE END His plots of course were thwarted and he was left
to fade away into obscurity and disbelief. (Ibid #7.8001) THE END One summer
morning several years later a letter arrived from a PO box in... THE END
As soon as those events had curtailed and sputtered, the sky began to clear
enough for all the world to see, from the eyes of a frog. “What a pedantic
bore you are you rotted apple core of a ghost!” she said with just a little
too much relish. So are the ways of us homunculi. We have been living underground
for some time and wish to return to the surface and once again breath the
air and let the sun drop down on our faces like blankets. But alas it is
only a pipe (bomb). THE END

PART
TWO: THE

DISRATIONALIST
INTOXICATIVE

There are “dialectic numerical digestion agents” within the functioning
hierarchy along certain points above a distopian aleph, of a marginal prostheticism;
namely the pantropic ether, the P.E. Now ether can be ingested in a manner
of ways, but the most prominent of all is the ether supplement, called the
disrationalist intoxicative, D.I., for those who aren’t down with current
lingo of our current four-dimensionality. It is consumed via transpacific
osmosis; a real group effort, a true collaboration on the part of several
highly skilled individuals who collectively call themselves: M.O.O.F....
M.O.O.F., being an arcanum/arcanomium/anarcronym for something, anything.
There was a legendary internet monster named "Moof", who was infamous years
ago for disconnecting cyber-travelers from their selected sites; this was
known as being "moofed". Retain pre-consistency. These legends really don’t
hold much water though they do know where the bananas are. THE END

PART
FOUR AND FIVE: THE FIRST EVIDENCES OF PROVINCIAL LIFE ON THE SUBATOMIC LEVEL
VIA QUANTUM TELEKINESIS

No matter how micro-biotic and benign they apeiron, these little fuckers
are the life blood of a great many subatomic plots on the domestic throne
of the first inter-spatial event horizon summit, ala the worm hole to your
right; that’s my left to you. When Gargantua had originally decided to meditate
on what would make the greatest arse-wipe of all time he used a swan in
a way that would make Leda blush. “I say is there anybody done there? I
say is there a living soul among any of you?” So said Mr. Hide, ripe with
the olive juices dripping off his forehead like so much sweat does on a
hot summer day in Gondwanaland. (See part 2)

(clickon the coupon above for more details)

PART
SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE AND ELEVEN: DELIVERY OF A PIZZA IN THE FORM OF A DOVE
TO MR. AND MRS. HIDE ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT, EVEN

High above the earth in what appears to be a chocolate covered woman is
something called an ‘Eros Matrix’, now me and the boys caught a portion
of it, when that meteor hit it, and took it down to the lab for colonization.
We poked and prodded the successive layers of dust that had accumulated
under its translucent epidermis. The results turned up inconclusive. It
was like fucking a toothbrush with a particle accelerator. THE END Then,
there was a small, faint, rather monotonous knock on the door. Mrs. Hide
jumped out of bed immediately and ran to the door; knocking the antique
clock off of the nightstand in the process. It was a stupid looking clock
any ways. So fuck it, right? 1) Time equals baby love or T = BABY LOVE.
It was ten o’clock. (You could smell that pizza from a mile away, everyone
in a one-mile vicinity came to their motel door to inquire about what kind
of pizza it was.) The time now is 7:15 P.M. It took a solid hour for Mrs.
Hide to tell all of them that there was only enough pizza for (her + her)
= (her) husband; who was in the shower washing himself, and someone just
like himself, like a rosebush, auto-pruning itself/himself, utter thing-ness.
For thirty-five minutes of the hour that she spent. (On and on.) (Das ding
an sich.) And then came the good part. THE END It was apparent that something
"fowl was a foot" when Mr. Hide burped and a dove flew out of his mouth
at top speed and right into the window, as is any bird’s custom when visiting
humans, killing itself in one fatal swoop. They had sex two more times and
then fell asleep in each other’s arms, guilt fre

PART
EIGHT: THE NON-LOCAL AFFECTS OF USING ONE’S SHITTER

There is a long distance that keeps all butterflies from any sort of Gael
force winds and close range de-rationalization systems used especially in
the in (and out) breeding of in (and out) animate objects ‘du chode. That
is there isn’t much of an un-literal connection, it just goes to show all
the time. (na na na) But that isn’t much of a thought to anyone in the situation,
which just unfolded before the very large and obsidian eyes of death that-that
particular particle just did. Before long, and with an amazing amount of
equanimity he was able to exacerbate the particular situation even farther,
which he did. And it wasn’t at a small cost to the non-locals. They would
be swimming in those flood waters for months to come trying to do their
daily chores with five to six feet of water at every turn. Just imagine
what the costs would be to non-residents in a non-local universe! There
would be… THE END There was always some book right next to the toilet bowl
that seemed to keep everything in order there. Funny thing was he couldn’t
ever remember what book it was that he had there and every time he went
and picked up the book it seemed like it was a new one. (It probably was,
but who is to say.) So one day he decided to host/hostess a little experiment.
He went into the bathroom and picked up the book and gave it a good look
over. It was a black book with gold lettering and one of those little tassels
that kids have on their graduation caps. He remembered his childhood and
how he didn’t have one of those tassels on his cap. In fact, he never had
a cap. He was (1)illiterate to the point(2) of not being able to(3) read
sufficiently other than to(4) spell his name. He felt more invertebrated
by the nanosecond. He wept into his hairy palms.(5) He wondered what the
book was called, he named off the letters (he picked up letters as a child
and he could spell H-I-S N-A-M-E): “M-O-O-F,” he said, each letter leaving
his lips like tobacco spit, “the fuck is that?” THE END(6)

PART THREE
AND TWENTY-NINE: THE RELIGIOUS IMPLICATIONS OF HAVING “AEMEATH” TATTOOED
ACROSS YOUR FOREHEAD

Now,
before there was enough oxygen in the lower rungs of the Earth’s atmosphere
for humans, and other various lower life forms, like giraffes or wiener
dogs, or their cryptozoological hybrid, the wieneraffe*, there was dirt.
Dirt may not have always been here, but it is definitely going to be
there for you when you die. And dirt is just a fancy word for “clay”.
“Clay”, used by humans, for eons, to make various useful things like
some of man’s earliest forms of slaves: golems. Golems, as you know,
are perfect for all those things that nobody wants to do. They do them
with intolerable equanimity and a level of happy-go-luckiness that makes
my skin curdle. Even things like self-applying make up to their eyeballs
to test for safety is done by golems with the most deplorable of cheery
smiles on their smarmy, little, “clay” and “DNA” string faces. THE END
Perpetual multiplicity (or inexact consistency): A young girl, perhaps
a hermaphrodite. THE END Actually, it was about five o’clock when I
first noticed that it was raining when I thought to myself, “Hey, I’ll
just go out for a little walk in the rain. I can sing those little songs
I’ve been making up, about that cute guy I see in school, to myself
so nobody will hear me.” So, I was just walking out near the stream
and singing, and doing this little dance that involves this sort of
frog hop side-step thing, when there, right in front of me was this
tall shadow. Now, I don’t mean tall like human tall, I mean tall, like
skyscrapers. It was just standing there, shadowing, or whatever it is
that they do. So, I started throwing little pebbles at it. Nothing happened,
so I figured I would try bigger stones and nothing happened. So that’s
when I started throwing the really big rocks at it. Eventually, I couldn’t
pick up the rocks I wanted to throw at the shadow; so I just threw myself
at it, and I promised myself that I would never do that again. So then
I did it again and again and again. When finally that big, tall shadow
was just eating out of my hand. The key is that you can’t let it know
you are scared of it. You gotta show those little sumbitches who is
boss, and I don’t mean them, if you know what I mêmê. (7)

PART SIX: CONCERNING THE SUPERSTRINGS UNDERNEATH THE CLOAK OF MR.
HIDE, AND MRS. HIDE ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT, UNEVEN

The reconstitution of imaginary (hidden, in cryptozoological terms)
things, including things that never even existed can be drawn
up and reconstituted in any amount of completedness or disfinishedness,
thereof. There is a popular meme floating around right now that
states that anything closely resembling anything can, in all actuality,
be nothing and then be re-implicated as something in a nothingness
accelerator, if not. Mr. Hide lifted up his skirt. He or she could
see his bulging sex-pack spelunking the plank, in the deep shadows,
of his underpants. His udder was the color of excited garlic and
it smelled of “love gasoline” in the sunlight. Quark file patter
on the hostess subject #19.000000000000000000000000000000015634875634321:
A proclivity to rectal hair/hare and…other such remedial devices
used in foreplay. THE END

PART THREE: ON WHY THE GUY WAS NUTS, SO I ATE HIM

THE END (3) THE END (3) THE END (3)

PART
THREE: THE ALEMBIX ARCANUM ARCANORUM, PART TWO(8)

THE END My mother told me once never to trust anything that laid eggs,
and that included anything that didn’t lay eggs. Cannibalism runs
very rampant in these parts come wintertime. And for a small fee I
can make sure that your body will not become part of someone else’.
I myself have only eaten the flesh of other humans when it was absolutely
necessary, and it has helped me out of many a jam. ($) A Special Announcement:
As everyone is very well aware, golems and homunculai, though pleasant
to lick when thirsty, are not suitable to eat, being neither vegetable
nor protein. There have been several recent reports of children eating
loose golems and homunculai. Please try to keep them locked up in
their closets. This is the last time I want to talk about this. “Sure,
sex and cannibalism can go hand in hand. Though it’s usually the other
way around.” (Tongue in cheek.) (Sex in hand.)(9)

PART THREE: THE PHYSIOLOGICAL DELICACY

“It
is imperative to remember, when working within the confines of
tesseracts (nature morte), that you should never put your hands
out of a moving vehicle. You may not get it back for another twenty
years or so.” Those were the last words my father said to me before
he finally checked out of this aluminum foil. I never quite realized
what they meant, until recently. They mean that everything has
a price value attached to it (in this case, $27.13), and that
our jobs as salesmen is to make sure that the customers don’t
realize the eternal implications of what it is they are buying
from us. It means that we are some of the good guys and that it
doesn’t matter what happens to this person or that person along
the way. It means that everything in life is a semantic judgment
on our parts, and that every one of those motherfuckers deserved
it. I mean they were asking for it. Dressing up like women and
all; acting so swish, it would make snails horny. (Suicide by
auto-homunculization.) A deliberate exuberance, sometimes dove
like, but never “dovely”. Never was there a prizefighter like
him. He was a machine. What you want to look for when butchering
the brain is a tiny little thing called the pituitary gland. Don’t
eat that. That’s the little devil in the brain. Might as well
wash it down with a tall, cool glass of mercury; call it even,
meme. “It’s the reason that having sex in automobiles is so fun
though. It’s like you really are in a ‘spaceship’ and that the
two of you need to ‘get it on, a a very serious and meaningful
way, because it is up to you to replenish the Earth. The two of
you are the only ones left. All future humans will be our little
whiskers and kicks. And it feels that way every time I make love
and then I am pregnant again (Freudian night slips)…I mean she’s
pregnant (not pungent) again; and there you have it.” “I only
decipher (Laurasian Ur languages) and then...only more so.” (Tap
dancing is quiet now.) “Oh…” “But, please continue, Mr. Hide,
going on and on. I find it fascinating and I am about to come.”
“Well, I had this one dream where I am at a funeral and there
is this lady there (the widow), who I really find quite amusing
and I start making out with the body (French kissing, like Lautremount)
and I just start…” THE END

PART THREE: A LITTLE BRUNCH MUSIC FOR ONE HUNDRED LOBSTERS

“Bottle
of beer on the wall.” “I used to just sit and stare at the lobsters
in the big fish tank at grocery stores when I was a child. I would try
to name all of them before my mother finished buying the groceries,
but I would always lose track of which ones were which. I still, to
this day, have never eaten lobster because I know that somehow paddling
back up our genetic waters I am going to find where our family tree
breaks off with their family tree and there they will be having a nice
English style breakfast, better than being boiled alive though.” Anyways,
there were enough lobsters in those days to skin a rat. Obscene, really.
They are called the cockroaches of the sea. And that is not to be taken
lightly; they can easily as kill a man as sleep with their daughters.
These things are down right pernicious. I had my first “experience”
with one a while back. Went by the name of ‘Frog Lips’. He was tall
and handsome, and he always had a few bucks to spare… THE END

PART EIGHT: A RETURN TO THE SCENE OF THE PRIME PENUMBRA, 1938

Hibernation, and pantaphobia. (Dyslexic crytptozoology) (10) I stayed
wrapped up in a blanket for three weeks trying to pretend that I
was somewhere else. Nothing seemed to work. I played house, but
I couldn’t imagine what my kids would look like so I played tea
party instead, the whole time I am shivering and trying not to let
my face peek out of the blanket. “More tea, Mr. Freeze?” I asked.
But there was no reply. I breathed out and the cold air turned my
breath into a butterfly. I shivered and made a little moan. I looked
out over the mountains, my new home. “I will learn to be part of
these mountains and I will take on the way of the non-locals and
become their king,”(11) I thought to myself. Thank you. “I will
haunt this mountain side. I will eat the children of all who dare
to conquer this peak.” “I have always wanted to eat children anyways.”

PART THREE: A REFERENCE TO DETERMINISTIC REALITIES

There are many-worlds of which we humans take part in; there
is an infinite number any way you look. Up, down, left, right.
These transfinite, ironic postulates don’t apply to our universe.
We live in a beer bottle. We are (not) the reason for dis-reason
in an anything goes situation (you are). Giving enough respects
to Pre-Cambrian ecolytes and faber tooth tigers, we are the
immortal constructs of spiritual Lilliputianism. That is, we
are Zarathustra’s monocles. (Dip that in your tea and eat it.)
With time the world will bow to its knees. We will murder the
universe fetal alcohol style *. And there was super-luminous
light. With the hour near approaching for a tender morsel to
be fetched from the kitchen, our Mrs. Hide was packing her bags
and heading out the door to the taxicab that just pulled up.
And so was the nig(12)ht… THE END And with that the rain began
(2) fall. And it rained for forty (40) days; which coincidentally
is as long as it takes to house the homunculus in their bottle,
in the horse dung before feeding them on the Arcanum of human
blood for forty (40) weeks. His name was Adam, part homunculus,
part the homunculus I love.

PART TWENTY-TWO: HOW MANY PHOTONS DOES IT TAKE TO “TURN ON”
A LIGHT BULB?

It
was particularly sunny that long, lost winter’s day. I remembered that
on account of this string I tied around Adam’s finger some forty years
ago. His finger just fell off. I don’t know what it is about his hands
that I always thought was so appealing, but they just always had that
thing to them-you know? Adam was trying to fuck a light socket, that’s
how he lost the finger. Got to be careful these days with all those
new fangled gadgetries and whatnots. I was just watching.

PART TWENTY-THREE: A MANUAL APHRODISIAC FOR CUCUMBERS

In an argument over the possibilities of actual hybridization work
done manually between humans and vegetables I set out to forever
change the face of cryptozoology. Hypothesis: It is possible to
impregnate a cucumber with human sperm and to carry that “vegetablean
fetis” to term naturally, or without the use of illeatoric "gene
machines", in the actual conception process. (Day one: I bought
today a package of cucumber seeds and planted them in hydroponics.)
THE END Today, the cucumbers are large enough to begin mating with.
I picked the second to largest cucumber in the greenhouse and began
to caress its outer portions. THE END Since that day I have mated
with a cucumber several times a day to no avail. There is a certain
enthrallment in the process of making love to a cucumber, but not
much in the way of an aftermath (aemeath). Occasionally I would
feel like there was something wrong with me, or the way I was doing
it. I knew that they knew I loved them, but I wanted them to “feel”
it too. I wanted my love to manifest itself in the form of a child.
Romance was an issue, but it is surprising how little time there
is for the wining and dining vegetables. I began over-flattering
the cucumbers, to the point of conspicuous lies. Saying things like,
“I love the greenness of your skin, it is more than the sun, the
moon and the stars to me.” (See section 78.00005) Another problem
was that one cucumber after another died, of natural causes, in
time that is too quick for regular human conception and delivery.
It is quite a blow to your nervous system, losing sexual partners
like that. So, I constructed this large walk-in freezer/love nest/
happy home area where my cucumbers could stay crisp and fresh for
me. I became conspicuous in seeing more than one of them at a time.
When I went walking down the street people began treating me like
a person worthy of owning a harem, even though I know that they
were jealous of my successes with the vegetable kingdom. There began
to develop large secret societies whose common objectives focused
around their jealousies of me. It was actually quite flattering.
“Let them rot!” I said, “Let them rot!” After a while I found that
I was able to please more than one of my precious cucumbers at a
time. That’s when I began my serious study of the Arcana Sutra.
To say I “ was the greatest lover that vegetables have ever known,
” would be an understatement of gargantuan proportions. The sounds
emitted from the pores of the cucumbers’ bodies when they are moved
to orgasm are the most wonderful sounds I had ever heard, like rainbows
frolicking hot shit out of their proverbial arses. I began to experiment
with the taboos of vegetable society, exploring the depths of their
sexuality, trying to learn the secret aphrodisiac that would unlock
the secret chastity of their pre-conscious ovaries; in hopes of
finally impregnating a cucumber with my own human breed-spunk. Vegetables
are sadists of the highest caliber. I began to give them love marks
on their ripe young bodies as I made love to them. Soon, I was taking
small bites out of them as they were climaxing. One thing led to
another and the next thing you know I am eating whole cucumbers
in front of other cucumbers to drive their pre-conscious veggie-libidos
wild. Then, a radiant and glorious success, one of the cucumbers
began to show. THE END Now, I had already placed my own pre-sperm
cells in the egg shells I personally harvested from willing cucumbers,
to see how long the offspring needed to gestate for, and to check
for the stability of such creatures in our non-local environment.
I had learned early on that cucumbers, when pregnant, are not the
most pleasant of organisms to be around. They are infinitely cranky
and always complaining, because they grow about thirty extra pounds;
mostly from skin tissue that builds up around they walls of their
stems where pre-conscious semi-vaginal organs begin to take form.
This really wasn't the aphrodisiac that I had been looking for.
I am still uncertain as to whether it was even an aphrodisiac at
all for them (the cucumbers). It was apotropaic intercourse, to
say the least.

PART TWENTY-FOUR: HOW VEGETABLEAN PREGNANCY CAUSES THE FIRST IN
A SERIES OF NATURAL ABOMINATIONS, NAMELY THAT OF “PICKLED CANNIBALISM”

She was only pregnant for a few hours before she started craving
pickles. Reluctantly, I went out to the store and bought her
some.

PART TWENTY-FIVE: THE BIRTH OF A HERMAPHRODITIC CUCUMBER/HUMAN
HYBRID, WHO WAS MY FIRST-BORN SON/DAUGHTER

In two weeks time the cucumber delivered a beautiful, three
ounce hermaphroditic cucumber/human hybrid, who was my first
born son/daughter. I quickly circumcised the male portions
of my child's anatomy and tattooed "AEMEATH" across its
forehead. I named him/her Adamada, after the ancient story
of the first hermaphrodite in history. There was a certain
“zing” to that old tale that I felt may expound on my child's
life non-locally, here in ??Elsewhere??. Adamada, as I am
sure you are well aware is a palindrome. So, another way
of pronouncing it would be adamadA, or even adAmada, or
even still adamAda. The next day I put Adamada into an illeatoric
"gene machine" and had his/her quarks identified. (As follows:)
Transfinite quark code # 1.00000001. This was very interesting
to see appear. Though it is an abbreviation for a longer
quark code that can theoretically go on ad infinitum, it
was a palindromatic numeration. Adamada, also a palindromatic
cryptozoological hybrid was also, in the context of transfinite
quark identification, a palindrome.

PART NINETEEN: WHAT THE PRE-CONSCIOUS ENTAILS AND WHY
IT IS USUALLY ILLEGIBLE OR HOW TO NOT GET FOOLED BY THE
DEATH OF RATIONAL UNICORNS

Cryptozoology,
which is the study of imaginary animals, should really be called the
study of pre-conscious animals. Animals manifest themselves in a variety
of ways. Some prefer to remain hidden from a homocentric view of the
world. Others, though fond of homocentrism, are too far removed from
consciousness to manifest themselves in a timely or decipherable manner.
The good thing about the cryptozoological implications of a branch of
quantum mechanics (called the many-worlds hypothesis) is that the construction
of pre-conscious animals (including humans) is possible. It is only
a matter of determining the appropriate quark patterns that would coincide
with the existence of such a thing. THE END Or on the other end of the
scale there is a whole world open for the possibilities of hedonism
as a language of ecto-plasmic orgasms and endo-plasmic noirgasms.*

PART TWENTY: THE NATURAL EVOLUTION OF PLASTIC NOIRGASMS

Noirgasmophilia, in the world of the non-local or the living pre-conscious
is a subject of much controversy. If something never existed and
is now in the process of copulating with other non-local or non-existent
entities, what are the calculable manifestations of their emotions
and/or their general feelings on the subject? They started in the
early part of the century with the explorations of Mr. Aemeath Hide.
Mr. Aemeath Hide was an arcanist, that is, he possessed the secret
knowledge of clay, especially that of the secrets associated with
the irrational disposition of porcelain, accounting for its extremely
high endorphin/sugar content. Porcelain is the non-local manifestation
of noirgasmophilia. By boiling his own noirgasm fluids in alembics
he had constructed from porcelain he was able to distill the pantropic
ether known as the disrationalist intoxicative. Having an extremely
large proclivity towards addiction to aleatoric substances, Mr.
Hide began devouring large portions of the pantropic ether in secret.
When his supply ran out he would quickly distill a small portion
of straight arcanohol from a special bottle he kept buried under
ten pounds of horse shit. THE END Having thusly reversed the alphabet
he had revised from a formula found in an old text...(14) Those
spagyric substances came in handy when he was working on the formula
to roil a noirgasm out of a dead body. He was taking a fresh corpse
from a livery that was then running perpendicular to the Milky Way.
It was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen years old. There is a point
in cryomation* (cryogenic + cremation) where the body begins to
start speaking and saying things that don't seem to make much sense
but in actuality can be seen as “illogical novelties” *. (Or snippets
of the noirgasmic.) Mr. Hide was roiling this particular body, and
was almost at the appropriate stage to record the body in a state
of perpetual noirgasm. This recording became the prototype for the
era of plastic noirgasms, being neither imaginary (pre-conscious)
nor able to be manifested through any physical conduits. A new wave
impetus for plastic noirgasms everywhere, meme.

PART TWENTY-ONE: A TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO CRYOGENIC SPORTS

At the speed of language, a body can sustain a perpetual state
of plastic noirgasm. Given that the arcanum of super-fluids
that are preserving it (the body) are 1) either one or the other
of helium, nitrogen, oxygen, or neon; 2) none of the above of
castrated gelatin, post-libidinous coagulant or distilled crypto-salvia
divinorium. That is to say the least, but not the last. With
a hyperbolic act of goodwill, on return to the cryogenic coliseum,
Adamada was hoisted up on the backs of several, small homunculai
and carried for the duration of their small and insignificant
lives. (Along the way.) This was a statement about the, to make
a statement about the, in order to better elucidate, that is,
to decipher it in a more intimate and orderly fashion; to tie
together with both hands for the sake of a molecular stimulation.
As an out-cropping of the original intention in the design of
such large and magnificent, or rather, a rather tempered and
well-stated device used in, and not just used for the original
purposes. I.E., the connections to the midsections of the exterior
of the homunculus, with nest, or the obnoxious elaboration’s
on the neck of the witness, used in housing the genealogy of
the hybrids. They remained safe in the safe. (With eyes twitching
at night to see the stars.) A waterfall, heard from miles away,
takes the place of a constant and annoying ring in only one
ear. (For the unlawful carnal knowledge of the noirgasmic.)
It stains not only the carpet and the couch, but the mind and
the underwear, not unlike any other condiments, meme. It is
a selfish gene game we play, and the one with the most diasporic
progeny wins, post-circadianity. Some just break, even. Some
stay frozen forever in the love juices of quantum physics: the
super-fluids. They are marinating for their big day, wherein
they are there again, non-utero, ex-temporal, hedonism let loose.

PART TWENTY-TWO: SPAGYRICISM AND THE DEATH OF MADAMADAM

With the dying of the great Adamada there came to be another
great sport to commemorate a life lived so… All *, in this
book are extracts from personal letters received by the
author from the Meme-Rider, Formerly Known as Sir Froon,
the Almighty of Eugene, Oregon and are used via his specific
permission; all rights are preserved in an arcanum of spagyric
substances.